Atrophy

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

---

Interactions: All Present, Tayla (via text) @silvermist1116
Kari’s House

---

Sloane made two false promises to herself the morning following the Halloween Festival. The first was that she was never going to teleport again. The second was that she was never going to drink again. The first day after the Halloween Festival was spent in a perpetual state of nausea and migraines, either curled up in the fetal position underneath a blanket on her chaise lounge or wrapped around the clean porcelain of her toilet. The sight and smell of the food she had delivered was offensive and upsetting. It sat untouched on her coffee table, growing cold alongside a kettle of ginger tea as the sun voyaged from one side of the window to the other. She had startled herself at some point in her wallowing when she had made the big, life altering decision to trek back from the chaise to her own bed and discovered that her California King had been occupied by another judging by the lumpy puff of a comforter on the side of the bed where most nights she would stare at the vacancy and dissociate. Throwing back the sheets revealed not a person but a blank, water damaged canvas, a confounding mystery that when solved left her feeling sicker than before.

The second day was not much better. Sloane never knew a hangover could be more than a twenty four hour affair. She spent the morning composing a series of unsent text messages to Anya and Jack, apologies for her behavior that she remembered much more than she wanted to, before transitioning to an afternoon spent absentmindedly watching classic movies with her back turned to the screen while. She had managed to stomach two small slices of plain cheese pizza, the crusts thrown back in the box like they were a chicken bone, before becoming annoyed and disgusted by the pizza from the chain delivery joint wasn’t a traditional margherita cooked inside of a wood burning oven following the methodology of someone’s ancient Italian grandmother. She had fallen asleep even earlier than the night before, waking for the meeting no longer hungover but instead just her usual amount of extreme tiredness exacerbated by yet another strange nightmare.

In comparison, Sully had been downright productive. Thanks to the restorative properties of the Chalice, his hangover died the moment he awoke. Auri had been able to forward Tayla's contact information, and while the rest of Greenwood cleaned up after their post-Halloween Festival party Sully took the time to compose a message to Tayla. The text became long winded and sprawling, an epic rivaling the works of Homer and focusing too much on the loss and recovery of his jacket that it almost buried the part that was relevant to Tayla. He had spent the rest of the day and the day after that stomping around St. Portwell with members of Greenwood, looking for a part-time gig so he could avoid being late on rent.

He had been out of work for a couple of weeks now, and reality was beginning to look more and more like he’d be moving back in with his mom. Although, really he’d rather just camp out then be a burden on her. Sully hadn’t mentioned any of his financial problems to Greenwood and really, with the Chalice in his possession and the extra weight on his gut there was little for him to ever worry about starving. Hell, as long as the weather didn’t get too extreme he imagined he could camp outside throughout much of November without ever getting too uncomfortable. However, all of these concerns were quickly becoming irrelevant when he found a place hiring workers to help repair the damage done to an area hit by a small seismic shock the previous day. Work started the following morning, a shift that Sully ended up having to skip because Auri had invited him to a meeting and he had promised her that last time was going to be the last time he skipped.

The morning of the meeting, Sully rounded the bend in his rusty old pickup, singing along poorly to the Jimmy Buffett song playing through the stereo. One of those black zip-up CD binders sitting on the bench seat next to him absolutely filled to the brim with Greatest Hits albums of bands that dads listen to and unmarked burnt CDs that Sully had made in high school. He let the car idle a little longer as he pulled in behind Drake’s car at the bottom of Kari’s drive, knowing full well that it was a felony offense to not finish the song Boat Drinks once it started playing.

“Boat drinks. Boys in the band ordered boat drinks…”

A black SUV could be seen pulling in behind Sully through his rear view mirror, the vehicle's windows tinted dark. Sully was unaware as the driver’s door opened and a man in a suit with sunglasses stepped out, crooning off key between sips from the Chalice to wet his whistle. “I shot six holes in my freezer, I think I got cabin fever…” The goon opened the rear passenger side door of the SUV and offered out a hand that was waved away by a black glove. A sharply dressed woman stepped out of the SUV and began walking towards the pathway leading up to Kari’s house, pausing to turn to chastise her driver as he followed closely after her like a puppy. “I should be leaving this climate, I got a verse but can’t rhyme it…” Sheepishly, the driver stepped back into the SUV.

“I gotta go where it’s warm!” hollered Sully from inside of his truck. Fully pumped he ripped the keys out of his ignition and swung the door open with full force. At the same time, Sloane, the passenger from the SUV, was walking by. She let out a startled yelp and jumped back, her hand over her beating heart as Sully’s door nearly pulverized her. Sully let out a startled scream of his own, not expecting to be ambushed the second he got out of his car. He even raised his hands up as if he was about to take Sloane on in a boxing match, expecting to see Dean instead of Sloane. Sloane recovered quickly, rolling her eyes as she gave another dismissive wave to her driver that had begun to step out of the car, hand clutching at his jacket.

“Pay more attention to where you’re going, Sullivan,” said Sloane, a little more edge to her usual dulled tone, looking down as she adjusted her coat.

“Hey, the same could be said to you, Sloaney,” said Sully, a bit of foamy liquid sloshing out of the top of the Chalice as he held up his hands in peace.

“That’s not my name,” said Sloane, going stiff.

“Holy shit, what happened to your nose?” asked Sully as the woman finally looked up at him. It was his first time seeing Sloane since the original meeting. He was legitimately unaware that Drake had broken her nose, but Sloane assumed otherwise.

She turned without a word, hands shoved into her coat pockets, and began moving to the house with a surprising amount of speed in her step. Sully called out for her to wait up and had to break into a light jog to catch up to her power walk. They made an odd duo. Sloane immaculately dressed with a nice black peacoat and a new cream turtleneck, Sully wearing a letterman jacket he had for over ten years and dirty boots, Sloane small enough that it would take three of her to make one Sully yet Sully looking infinitely more approachable than Sloane who despite being more fabric than person still carried a heavy gravitas around her. Sully was able to get ahold of her shoulder and slow her down.

“Do you know if Tayla’s coming?” he asked.

“Why would I?” asked Sloane. She didn’t talk to Tayla. Or rather, as she was growing to understand it all, Tayla didn’t talk to her. She hated Tayla almost as much as she hated Sully. Of course he’d be asking after Tayla. They used to party together. Meanwhile, Sloane bet Sully would’ve forgotten who Sloane was if she hadn’t held on to the Chalice for him while he went about chasing after some stupid, worthless dream that he was still somehow too inadequate to accomplish.

“Oh, um, I dunno. I just thought you might,” he said, taking a step back. Excluding the day that he had recruited her, Sully had never been really close with Sloane. She was one of the few people from back in the day that he actually found himself uncomfortable spending time with alone. She was also just so guarded that he felt unwelcome in her presence. However, today was a little different. She wasn’t just on guard, she was en garde—poised and ready to strike at anyone or anything that got in her way.

“You should leave the thinking to people who aren’t drunk,” said Sloane, glancing at the Chalice.

“Whoa, hey, I’m not drunk, I was just having a road soda,” said Sully, smiling as he tried to joke with Sloane. The smile quickly faded as she began to turn back towards the house. Sully caught her again by the shoulder, a grab she attempted to roughly shove off. He splashed the lager in his Chalice out on the ground and filled it with the elixir. He nodded to her partially healed nose. “Loooook, I’m a little out of the loop, but I’m here now. At the very least let me fix that.”

Sloane paused. She was tempted to leave her broken nose unchanged, to forever leave her face offset to serve as a permanent taunt towards Drake reminding him of the idiot he was, but he’d already proven that he didn’t give a shit and she didn’t need the injury to remind her of how she felt. It wasn’t worth getting the bridge on all of her designer sunglasses adjusted. With a hint of reluctance she nodded. Sully began lowering the Chalice as if he was going to make her drink from it himself, so she quickly mumbled her dissent and snatched the goblet from his hand. She took a drink, wincing as she felt the bones beneath her face shift until they were back in the proper place. She held onto the Chalice for a little while longer, tempted to confiscate it or at the very least ask him permission to hold onto it longer enough to recreate its Counterfeit. Instead she just handed it back and wiped her lip.

“There you go. Everything’s all healed now,” said Sully.

No it isn’t, thought Sloane. Out loud she managed to mutter a half-hearted thanks. Sully thought about asking her what happened but decided against it, taking any kind of reaction out of her that wasn’t a poke at the ribs as some kind of moral victory. Their walking pace slowed and the pair continued on to the house in silence, one that Sloane appreciated greatly. For Sully the silence was more uncomfortable, like stumbling through a small patch of poison oak and spending the rest of the day with an nagging itching sensation that begged to be scratched but knowing he shouldn’t or it’d make things worse. He was grateful to see Kari’s house emerge out of the woods.

He let out a low whistle, “Goddamn that’s a cool place. Looks like Kari did well for herself.”

Sloane grumbled something under her breath. Sully didn’t quite make it out. What she had said was, “And look where it got her.”

The two had very polar reactions to witnessing the other Coven members already being present. For Sloane she felt her heart rate spike, first when she saw Jasper and second when she saw Drake, although the presence of every other member of the Coven was like a knife in the belly. She slipped behind Sully to avoid detection, suddenly discovering that the big idiot had some actual worth. For Sully he felt himself suddenly relieved, happy to see everyone together safe and sound. He didn’t even notice Sloane becoming his shadow as he charged up towards Drake and Stormy, wrapping his boys up in a big hug. Sloane took the distraction to separate completely from Sully and blend in on the other side of the patio, sitting up on the banister so that she practically vanished behind a wooden support beam and simply became part of the decor.

“C’mon Stormy, clearly those flowers are for me!” teased Sully. “Damn, bro, you really shouldn’t have.”

Sully’s face sunk when Auri revealed that Lyss had been murdered. He hadn’t even known that she had been back in town. He pulled his beanie off of his head and rubbed the back of his head, always uncertain of what to say in moments like these. His typical knee jerk reaction was to make a joke to try and break the tension, but it just felt outright inappropriate. Fortunately, Linqian and Ayrin started (playfully) going at it, and Ken was jingling around still wearing a Halloween costume a few days too late, and Amara declared to any who would hear that she actually still existed. They provided a quick distraction from the sadness and, wait, when did all of them show up anyway? How much had he missed?

“Well, hell Amara, what are the odds? I lived and I’m here too,” said Sully, giving her a friendly head nod.

Sloane closed her eyes and shook her head with a nearly imperceptible smirk on her bored face. The news about Lyss was devastating but not unexpected. Of course the PRA had failed to protect them. Of course they had. Behind the smirk her teeth grinded tightly against one another. Almost as soon as the news about Lyss's death was broken the Coven immediately moved on to buffoonery because of course they would. It took every fiber of her being not to explode and scream at Linqian to shut the hell up as she went off on Ayrin, even if it was in good fun. She couldn’t believe that someone like Jinhai was related to someone as barbaric and insensitive as his sister.

She painfully scraped her tongue against her teeth instead chose to remain silent, shifting herself around behind the others to make her way to the front door. She pulled out the crumpled tarot card from her pocket and began drawing a tiny, intricate symbol on the door’s handle. The Hexmark wasn’t a complicated one, but it did require a bit of concentration—concentration that was hard to come by as the Coven bickered and flirted with one another. Sloane felt like she was suffocating. She already knew she didn’t have the patience in her to wait for Kenshiro to begin flipping over a bunch of rocks looking for a key that probably didn’t even exist, but now she was considering just punching her hand through the glass and loosening the lock that way. She leaned her head against the door and tried to tune the world out.

Meanwhile, Sully rubbed at the thick stubble on his chin. He had thought he had been late to the last meeting he had attended seeing as how out of hand it had been, but maybe he hadn’t been as late as he thought he had considering how quickly things here felt like they were about to derail. He turned to Auri with a sympathetic look. He had wanted to speak with her and Britney about the Dean problem anyway, preferably with Tayla’s input, but right now it seemed like more than anything that Auri needed someone to help her herd all of these cats. Stepping to the center of the group, Sully filled up the Chalice with some beer and cleared his throat.

“Hey! I know we’ve all had a crazy couple of weeks, but let’s all huddle up, focus, and give Auri our undivided attention, okay? But first let’s take a moment to pay respects to Lyss. She was a good egg. A lot of us are standing here today thanks to her,” said Sully, pouring out the beer on the stoop. “I dunno, maybe we can just give her a moment of si—”

BANG!

The front door of the house had flown open and slammed loudly against the wall, denting the plaster. Sloane caught the door with her hand as it bounced back towards her, the Hexmark on the handle still glowing with a faint blue and orange light. She gave the Coven a wide, toothy smile that on anyone else would’ve been friendly but on Sloane it was only eerie. Shadows fell on her face as she stepped inside before she flicked on the lights, the smile slowly fading from her face as she glared at the group gathered on the patio.

“Door’s open. What are you waiting for?” asked Sloane. She turned her back on the group, rolled her eyes, and stepped deeper into the entrance way to clear the door. She muttered under her breath. “Let’s go accomplish fucking nothing again.”

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

Hey y'all, some heavy family stuff has come up. I'll probably be slow to respond for the next few days.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

---

Interactions: Greenwood@Punished GN
The Halloween Festival.

---

“Ah, shit!” cried out Sully.

He propped himself against a lamp post as he got a stitch in his side, panting heavily. Sweat would've been pouring from him if he wasn't already drenched by the rain as he doubled over, his fist pounding the pole in a volatile mix of frustration and pain transference. He looked over his shoulder, surprised to see that there wasn't an axe wielding maniac already making sashimi out of him. More surprising, still, was the stampede of terrified ghouls and goblins that were running foolishly in the direction of the phantasmal killer. Sully turned to lean against the pole, watching the retreating crowd with a look of perplexion.

As the fleeing festival goers cleared the grounds Sully's eyes focused on the horizon, scanning for the nonexistent threat that was after him. His breathing slowed and steadied, the sharp pain in his side diminishing into a steady throb. He slung his soiled jacket up over his head as a makeshift umbrella, pulling out his phone to check for a response from Auri. Nothing yet. A rush of anxiety gripped him. Every second he couldn't get in touch with Tayla was another second of being an abject failure.

A fast moving object appeared suddenly in his field of view, something quick and silver like a bullet meant for a werewolf. By the time Sully could tell that the trajectory of the projectile was coming right for him it had already cracked against his forehead, rocking his head back so sharply that it bounced off the lamp post. He started seeing stars as he felt the cold metal object fall down into his hands, looking down to find that not only was he reunited with his Chalice but that he'd been granted another. Further proof that he was, ill-advisedly, the chosen one.Sully looked up to see whatever god was smiling down upon him.

Instead of god he caught sight of Greenwood, Naomi's arm still slung forward from the pitch, the others looking on either in horror or horrible attempts to hold back laughter after the Chalice had beaned him. Sully twisted the Chalice in his hand, raised it in a toast, and drank deeply. Immediately the pain from being hit by the goblet and the bruising from Dean’s beating disappeared, accompanied with a sharpening of vision and a clearing up of mental fog due to the elixir also purging the alcohol from his system. Sobriety was an unintentional side effect, but as Sully went to take another drink and begin resetting himself to his previous state of inebriation he paused. Being clear headed was the best way to find himself out of this pickle he had been caught in between Tayla and Dean.

He promised himself he would only have a handful of drinks then.

Sully took a sip from the Chalice and rejoined with Greenwood, the trading stories about their night as the storm raged on. Lightning cracked over the Halloween Festival, the entire fairgrounds white with blinding light, and then the Greenwood Coven was gone. They had teleported away from the storm and back to their own stomping grounds. It was only as Sully passed a joint that had tasted rather suspicious that he realized something. His large hand clapped loudly against his forehead.

Drake! He had forgotten about Drake!

He reached from his phone but then stopped himself, remembering how that one girl had been all over Drake. Yeah, on second thought, better not interrupt his boy. Sully thought it was pretty soon for Drake to begin moving on, but hell he had no skin in that game and a distraction would be good for Drake. Sully leaned back, took a sip from his Chalice, and nodded his head along to the beats of Starry Eyed Surprise playing over a blown-out bluetooth speaker. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he’d reconvene with Auri and the others. Right now he was going to enjoy finding himself with all of his friends, dancing the night away like the party never ends.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

---

Interactions: Anya @Fernstone Trevor @Punished GN
The Halloween Festival

---

Her ploy failed as Anya was forced to sit with Trevor, yet Sloane never imagined that the feeling of failure would come with such sweet relief. The realization that she couldn't possibly deal with Trevor alone had hit her only after the invitation had come out of her mouth, reinforced by his disgusting and crass vaudeville performance of Father Wolf. She lightly bumped her shoulder against Anya’s as her friend thanked her, sheepishly muttering under her breath a nearly inaudible apology. She lowered her eyes as her nail picked at the table. One of the agents had the nerve to laugh at Trevor's antics.

The thought that their safety was in the hands of a pack of professional baboons was absolutely terrifying.

She began to shake. Blame the rain. She scooted closer to Anya. Together they could get through this. Together they were—Sloane flinched as Anya invited Meifeng along, her nail scratching so deeply against the wood that it lodged a splinter underneath it. In quiet panic Sloane began to suck on her finger, trying to pick the splinter with her teeth in a desperate effort to keep her mouth preoccupied. Her finger was soon joined by the rest of her fist as Meifeng denied Anya’s request and tried to get them to sit at her table. A classic power play.

She noted how only Anya got offered a drink as her teeth sunk into her knuckles. Soon Meifeng and her cronies were gone, heading off to deal with Emily. Wait, Emily? Was Emily here? And was she somehow considered less annoying than Sloane? And did Emily even know what was happening? She could be in danger. Vashti could be in danger. Regardless of what they were like, they were as much a part of Sycamore as everyone else.

Sloane blinked. Bow-bow! A flash of lightning sparked a phantom image of Trevor stabbing at the air, the air filling out into the shape of Emily as a knife was plugged into her chest. Maybe the PRA were going to protect her. ‘Aaaaaaah! I'm getting stabbed!’ screamed an imaginary Vashti, blood gushing from her mouth. Maybe the PRA were going to protect her? They couldn't even protect one of their own.

Plus, they were drunk. They were all clearly and obviously drunk. Like that woman with Meifeng had just given away a perfectly wonderful tropical drink that went down easy and soothed the pain in Sloane's finger and—huh, when had she started drinking Anya's margarita? Sloane rapidly blinked again, taking another sip of the marg to clear her head. The rain didn't show any signs of slowing.

Sloane, who had sunken into a state of drunken silence like a monk who had the keys to the Communion cabinet, gasped loudly and suddenly. Jasper's painting! The weather would ruin it! She jumped to her feet, torn between two equally important priorities: saving 8th Street from a psycho killer and a group of inept bureaucrats or saving a blank canvas that served as the ultimate proof to confirm the suspicions she had held onto for years.

“Anya! We need to…urk…” Sloane was hit by a wave of vertigo induced solely by jumping up to her feet too fast and absolutely nothing else. Definitely not due to any of the drinks sloshing around in her otherwise empty stomach. She turned her head and held her hand up to show that she was okay. One, two, three, okay, breath and now one, two, three, okay, release.

She bet nobody even noticed. She'd just sit down, close her eyes, wait for the world to stop spinning, and give it another go in a second. Sloane sat with a heavy thump and slouched forward, folding her arms on the table and resting her head up on them. She closed her eyes as the comforting sounds of the storm wrapped around her like a warm blanket.

“Anya…where's Jack?” asked Sloane, her mind doing a one-eighty. She reached out blindly with her hand to grab for the margarita, threatening to wipe out everybody's drink. Suddenly, she stopped reaching and started pointing with her finger, violently stabbing it in the air with the finesse of a musketeer. ”Shouldn't be alone. So stupid…”

“Trevooooor, save Jack,” said Sloane, continually prodding him under the table with her foot. ”He's our ride home.” She kept sliding lower in her seat so she could continue to kick at Trevor's shin. ”Bianca’s got us. Prove yourself and go saaaaaave him…”

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

---

Interactions: Anya @Fernstone & Trevor @Punished GN
The Halloween Festival

---

Sloane was grateful that Anya had been courteous enough to wrap her arm around her shoulder to help her walk, as her legs had suddenly felt like they were made out of jello. It wasn’t because she was drunk—again, if this hadn’t already been made clear, Anya was drunk. Anya. Anya was the drunk one. Sloane was as sober as a judge. It was because something Anya had said, a secret she had let slip due quite simply to how belligerently shitfaced she was right now. Why, Sloane was quite certain that Anya was leaning on her for support and not the other way around! However, that was neither here nor there. Something massive had just happened. A revelation. A confirmation. Vindication.

She had been right: he’s obsessed!

Sloane didn’t know how she thought she would feel knowing that she had been right about Jasper, but right now knowing that he dreamed about her made Sloane feel sick. Her stomach tightened, twisted, and filled with a fluttering sensation as if she needed to vomit. She felt feverish as her face flushed, the yellow scarf around her overheating throat suddenly becoming so unbearable she had to pull it away with a trembling hand. The blood pumped in her ringing ears as she felt a sudden sharp pain in her chest. Her mind was flooded with visions of her catching Jasper’s verdant green eyes darting away from her, only ever getting a taste of his disparaging glances. God, what was his problem? What was his deal? What did Anya exactly mean by “quite a few times” and what kind of dreams were they?

What kind of deviant imbecile spent so much time obsessing over another person that they obviously hated? Damn it, Anya. She needed the details!

Where even was Anya? Before panic could set in, Anya slid a drink across the table to her as she magically reappeared exactly when Sloane needed her. Finally, she had been dying to ask her about Jasper. Sloane’s mouth opened and ”...No thoughts about the boys…” closed as she raised her glass to meet Anya’s toast and then buried her face in the cup to keep her from blurting out the undesired question. She drank deeply and gave Anya a warm smile as she set down her cup.

If they couldn’t talk about Jasper—no, what she meant was that why would anyone want to talk about Jasper—nevermind, the point was that she wanted to hear Anya talk about the dreams. Sloane enjoyed hearing about other people’s dreams. They were always so much more interesting than her own. She leaned forward with rapt attention and glossy eyes, putting her elbow on the table in a breach of etiquette to proper up her chin so that her head would stop bobbing.

And then from a couple tables over Jason Lee Scott went, "Oooooooh!"

Sloane immediately slumped forward onto the table with a soft thunk as Trevor unmasked himself, burying her head in her arms and hiding beneath her hat. Why was he here? Sure, he was supposed to be surveillancing them, but not like this. He shouldn’t be talking to them in person, or at all. From underneath her cover her muffled voice could be heard, saying something against the idea of fate and something about government tracking, something that got further impossible to understand as he dropped his pickup line on Anya that was as smooth as a gravel road. From underneath Sloane’s hat, the muffled words were replaced by the sound of a whistling tea kettle as she screamed into her jacket.

She just barely caught Meifeng’s words, but it was enough to make her head snap up and, whoa, one second. Sloane blinked rapidly, looking past the two red rangers to the red ranger’s boss. What was that? It had sounded like Meifeng had just admitted that after unjustly raiding Sycamore’s headquarters in a complete display of an abuse of power and unprofessionalism she had intended to just blow them all off with a stupid prank despite Sloane’s earnest attempt to offer her their cooperation. All because Sloane was going to be annoying by, what, asking her to do her job? Sloane seethed, her shoulders shaking. Her best friend hand been traumatized—Sloane had been traumatized—because this irresponsible bitch didn’t want to…ERGH!

“Hey!” shouted Sloane, slapping her hands against the table as she shot up with a stumble. That was it. She was going to give Meifeng the dressing down she deserved and she was going to get her badge number so that she could file an official complaint.

As Sloane was about to turn and earn herself the top bunk in Eve’s cell she made eye contact with Anya and hesitated. In the week since Anya’s sacrifice none of their colleagues had been murdered by Father Wolf. She would never forgive herself if something she said made the PRA pull out on their part of the deal. She gave Anya a sad, apologetic look that said, “Trust me, this is for the best. I’m sorry, I love you.” She slammed her drink and closed her eyes tight, squeezing them shut so hard that her entire face scrunched up and looked as if it was about to pop, letting out a sigh instead. She stepped around the table to take the only available spot next to Anya and gestured towards where she had been sitting.

“Please, join us,” said Sloane to Trevor. She was unable to make eye contact with him. Somehow, impossibly, her voice sounded more hollow than it had ever before, as if saying those three words had obliterated whatever husk of a soul she had rattling around inside of her. She pulled her cup up to her lips and faked surprise in the stiffest performance ever when she “discovered” that it was empty. “Oh. No. Anya. Our drinks. They’re empty.”

Anya’s wasn’t. Sloane lashed out like lightning, grabbed the long island, and chugged it. Immediate regret slashed its way across her face. She covered her mouth with her hand, worried that she was going to let out an unladylike burp or worse.

“Oooh, yep, they’re both…they’re both empty. Anya, could you grab anot…another?” And run, letting the future generations know of Sloane’s sacrifice. “Trevor will keep me company. W-won’t you?”

Sloane couldn’t think of what would be worse—spending any amount of time alone with Trevor, or getting rejected by someone like him. She hoped she wouldn’t have to actually find out. The one time she needed Jack to give her an emergency teleport and he wasn't there! Thunder rumbled above. Maybe if Sloane was lucky she’d be struck by lightning.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

---

Interactions: Anya @Fernstone
The Halloween Festival

---

She felt odd. Sloane turned her eyes to the ground and watched the rain wash the paint away as Jack got up to leave, a small victory overshadowed by an incredible feeling of guilt. She winced as he referred to the Sycamore Tree Coven as a family just like Auri had stupidly called them one in the first meeting. Families were unshakeable burdens. Families weren’t chosen so much as they were forced onto you. People who liked their families were generally unbearable. Sloane raked her teeth over her bottom lip. Now that she considered it, Sycamore was starting to sound a lot like a family after all. Jack was playing his part of the prodigal son perfectly.

”...I never turned down an opportunity to aid anyone, or be there in their time of need.”

How quick he was to ignore ten years of proof saying the exact opposite. Yet Sloane found herself unable to call out his hypocrisy, tempted by an overwhelming urge to call out for him to wait instead. She looked up and the words died in her throat as she came eye to eye with Anya. It looked like she had been crying. Sloane’s face contorted and twisted, glitching between flashes of abject terror punching through the caster of an expressionless death mask. How much exactly had Anya heard? Enough to hurt her? There wasn’t much that Sloane shied away from telling Anya, but her feelings were one thing that was almost never a topic of their discussions. When Sloane said everyone was a disappointment, surely Anya knew that she was exempt, right? Or what if she never realized how much she was held down by Sloane? Was this the moment where Anya rejected her too? Of course it was. Everybody did eventually.

”...It would be rather lonely to both be hated alone, wouldn’t it?”

Sloane released a choked, staggered sigh of relief masqueraded as a laugh. She closed her eyes tight and sucked her cheeks in like she had just bitten into a lemon to keep herself from smiling like a child. Her eyes were swimming in pools of pure adoration when she opened them again. The drinks and Jack’s endless, insistent prodding had knocked the walls around Sloane’s fortress down, if only for the evening. There was no hiding the powerful and unabashed projection of the love and admiration that Sloane had long felt for Anya but kept tucked away fearing that it would reek of desperation and convince Anya to find a less pathetic friend. She felt embarrassed and warm and stupid and safe and something else, something she couldn’t quite put a descriptor to because it was something she hadn’t felt in a long time if, perhaps, ever.

Sloane closed her eyes again, finding it more and more difficult to keep them open for some reason, but no longer tried to hide her blissful smile. Between making up for Sloane’s faux pas and trying to give her some privacy with Jack, Anya had apparently only been thinking about Sloane’s betterment while she was gone. And, unlike Jack, she offered to lend Sloane an ear without forcing her to actually speak up and talk. Anya said something that prompted Sloane to reopen her eyes, and through blurred vision she saw her hand and grabbed it. Sloane stumbled up to her feet and positioned herself at Anya’s side, and instead of letting go of Anya’s hand she grabbed it with her other one as well. Sloane rested her head on her best friend’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to talk about any of that,” said Sloane.

She had slurred her words more heavily than before. Yet somehow she felt lighter, like she had just taken an overstuffed backpack off of her shoulders. Sloane didn’t realize just how long she’d been carrying around the burden of everything that had been weighing on her mind, and tragically she didn’t even realize that dumping everything on Jack had been the catalyst to improving her mood. She wouldn’t remember how it had been Jack that had come after her first, or that it had been Jack to force her out of her comfort zone so that she would unload. Sadly, she would only remember that it had been Jack who had walked away whereas it had been Anya who had lifted her up from the ground.

Like the Coven before and her parents before that, Jack had abandoned her. But Anya? Anya was always there for her. Sloane didn’t need a family; she already had a sister. Her grip tightened protectively on Anya’s arm. Sloane would keep her safe. No matter what, she would keep Anya safe. She deserved it. For all the kindness Anya had shown her she deserved so much more. So, so much more. What was even better was that Sloane wouldn’t have to do the embarrassing thing and say it. Anya would just know. She would just know that Sloane was fully bought in—hook, line, and sinker.

“But it’s whatever you want. I want whatever you want,” said Sloane with the dreamy cadence of a sleep talker. “But if what you want was another drink that’d be pretty cool. Even though you’re obviously already so drunk. Don’t pretend like you aren’t, either, I can read you like an open, um, like an open…did I leave our tab open? Oh, and my painting. Jack forgot my painting. Sheesh, he’s so inconsiderate sometimes. Don’t forget my painting, okay?”

She shook Anya’s arm towards the blank canvas sitting on a stack of rubbish.

“Jasper made it for me,” said Sloane in a hushed tone, as if she were sharing a massive secret. She let out another bizarrely girlish giggle. “He’s obsessed!”

---

Interactions: Auri (Deus Text Machina) @Punished GN
The Halloween Festival.

---

That dude was obsessed.

A drop of rain cut through the leaves and plinked off of Sully’s forehead as he continued lying on the ground. He had no real drive nor desire to get up. He had taken plenty of hits when he was younger and had always been able to get back up, but this felt different. He had thoroughly gotten his ass whooped. Hell, he had barely even been able to defend himself. If Dean had just wanted to kick Sully’s ass or if he had been Father Wolf then Sully would’ve basically just thrown himself headfirst into the grave and pulled the dirt over the top of himself. Even if he hadn't been so wasted he doubted he could’ve done much better. Sully groaned, lightly pounding his forehead with his closed fist. What the fuck had he been thinking. What an idiot.

He pulled the jacket Dean had returned to him over his face as the rain picked up. If he was lucky maybe he would sink into the mud and not have to deal with what was to come. Could he really stumble out of the woods with his face all busted open and try to keep on partying? Could he stand having to see Leon, knowing that if he had been in Sully’s shoes he would’ve laid the smackdown on Dean so hard that not only would Dean stop being such a creepy stalker but that he’d turn himself into the police because he would feel safer behind bars than out walking the streets where Leon roamed. Sully breathed in deeply and listened to the sound of rain hitting his jacket. It was soothing. The blood on his face was pleasantly warm. He exhaled. Closed his eyes.

No, wait!

Sully sat up, the jacket falling off of his face and plopping into his lap. His white toga was now mostly brown. A trickle of blood extended his mustache down to his weak jawline that was already beginning to regrow stubble. He fumbled around with his coat and found his phone. He needed to warn Tayla, and to do that he needed to get her number. Auri would have it. The situation was such an emergency that he almost called her but hung up before the first ring, looking over his shoulder. Dean could still be around, watching, waiting. He saw nothing but twisted trees looming over his right shoulder, but over his left! Sully sharply turned, fist raised, ready to slug the whole bunch of nothing sneaking up on his back, and grunted as he felt a muscle in his side pinch. He moaned in pain and sent out a mostly legible text to Auri that only asked for Tayla’s number as well as marking next Thursday in his Calendar.

Sully slowly made his way up to his feet. He needed to come up with a plan for how to handle Dean, but before that he needed a drink, and before-before that he needed to find his way out of the woods. Sully began to stumble ahead, his body like lead, focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other, then the other. He reached out to the trees to support himself as he got mud on his only pair of dress shoes, the remnants of the pilot costume he had started the night in. He no longer felt like Dionysus. There was nothing godly about his situation. Perhaps he was Theseus and the forest his version of the labyrinth, but he didn’t feel all too heroic either. Nah, he wasn’t even Greek. He was just a big, fat, stupid, drunk loser named Sullivan wearing a dirty bed sheet.

When he emerged from the woods he didn’t know where he was, but the haunted house wasn’t in sight. A quiet curse crossed Sully’s lips as he pulled out his phone, forgot entirely about how it offered him access to absolutely every piece of information in the world including a map with his precise location, and turned the flashlight on instead. Cracker Island wasn’t too big. He’d just follow the treeline and circle around until he made it back to the haunted house. He had already gotten jumped once tonight. There was probably some universal law that existed that would prevent him from being jumped again. Yep, this time, surely, nothing bad would happen.

A twig snapped behind him.

And with a shout Sully broke into a dead sprint, running for his life, as the terrified opossum that had snuck up on the curious looking Sasquatch curled up into a ball and played dead.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

---

Interactions: Leon @AtomicEmperor
Toga Party. Halloween Festival.

---

Vashti licked her lips hungrily as Linqian was tossed her way like a chicken off the side of a dock in a bayou. That look Linqian gave Vashti melted her, heating the wrist that had been nearly frostbitten by Linqian earlier with a warm sensation that was as painful as it was pleasant. Vashti returned the look with one of dark and even dangerous curiosity. It wasn’t just suggestive, it was a spoiler, a teaser trailer for what was to come once Vashti got her hands on Linqian. The way they could ruin one another would be an absolutely beautiful catastrophe. Vashti was able to squeeze part of herself free from her Drake and Leon sandwich and reach out to Linqian. The tips of their fingers nearly caressed, nothing but a few millimeters of air and one incredible and violently unstable spark between them. Vashti parted her lips.

And Linqian was snapped away, signing Call me as she was abducted.

No!

Fuck. That. Vashti wasn’t going to wait for what she wanted. With a sudden surge of strength that flowed into Vashti from her libido, she was able to wedge enough room between herself and Drake to give chase to Linqian. She was stopped by Leon wrapping his hands around her waist,No!, her eyes fluttering as she felt his muscles tightened and his body pressed against hers, Yes!. Her mind blanked and a wicked smile carved its way onto her face. Her hands slipped down over his, trying to guide them just a little lower. Her head soared and her heart raced as she was hefted up by Leon with ease, Yes! Yes! Drive me into the ground and devour me like a snack!

The situation hit a slight hiccup as she was placed on his shoulders instead of being buried face first into the dirt, but the disappointment shifted as Vashti caught Leon’s eye. In unison with him she raised both of her fists into the air.

“DOUBLE DECKER TOGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

She felt high, both figuratively and literally. This was how her life always should be: surrounded by drunken debauchery and half-naked hot people that were all beneath her, with the head of a powerful man pressed between her thighs. Vashti drained the contents of the Chalice as it was passed back to her as Sully stumbled away from the toga line, dropping it to Emily behind her. She leaned forward, pressing her chest against the back of Leon’s hair, her curly hair draping over his face, her eyes drunk with lust, as she slid a hand beneath his chin to guide his focus back up to her. Only her. A finger traced down to feel the pulse in his jugular. She smiled down at him, a warm invitation, the scent of sweet wine on her hot breath.

Her desire to be with Leon was now matched only by one other deeper, darker desire that lurked hidden in the depths of all people, kept locked away until that person was presented with a key. Years ago Britney had been the one to give her the key, much like Lady Lelou had with Leon. Leon looked hot now, but he would’ve looked even hotter on his knees, hands wrapped around his throat, a crimson necktie unfurling over his toga. Her breathing quickened with heated anticipation as she locked eyes with Leon, her finger making a few practice runs across his neck. It might not actually be enough to kill Leon if what she heard was true. That was even more exciting. The two of them locked together in a deadly tango, surrounded by stacks of bloodied sheets of the remnants of the toga party, clawing and biting and ripping and tearing one another apart until the break of dawn.

She let go of his chin. She arched her back, pulling her face away from Leon, and rolled her head as she released a steamy sigh. She watched the moon, the fingers on her left hand working their way through Leon’s hair. She closed her eyes and was greeted to a not entirely unpleasant visual of it being Linqian, not Leon, beneath her. Her eyes snapped open, a clear expression of what the fuck on her face accompanied by suddenly much sharper eyes that scanned the immediate area for her missing gold prize. She didn’t see Linqian. Instead, she only saw Emily scampering away with the Chalice in her hand. Leon would feel Vashti’s entire body tense as she silently swore up a storm at her back, just as surely he would’ve felt Emily let go of him and perhaps take a look at the woman stealing their party favor.

Vashti couldn’t let that happen.

She put her hand beneath Leon’s chin again and jerked it up again, aggression stabbing the previously felt sensuality in the kidneys and leaving it to die on the streets. The lustful desire in her eyes was replaced by a different deadly sin as she moved in for the kill, her jaws darting forward with a sudden snap. She pulled Leon’s attention away with a long and deep kiss. It was passionate, although not in the way it was with new lovers still discovering the mystery of their partner’s body. It was much more like the way that someone stabbing their spouse sixty-seven times in the stomach was considered passionate, delivered in the form of little tiny bites on his lip between bouts of their tongues trying to pin the other to assert their dominance.

Vashti peaked an eye open and only pulled away for oxygen once, from her vantage point, she saw that Emily had moved far enough away to be blocked by the crowd. Her face was flushed and her chest heaved as she looked down at Leon with a wolfish smile, a smile that narrowed as she looked back towards Emily and caught sight of Greenwood and a fucking Batman making a move after her. Her fingers scritched the bottom of Leon’s chin as if to say good boy as she threw her head back and screamed in silence. Always such a fucking cockblock! A dark cloud rolled in front of the moon as she leaned back down and peppered Leon with a line of kisses from his mouth to his ear. She dropped from his shoulders with an acrobatic twist, her hand still wrapped around his hair like a leash so that he’d stoop down so she could whisper in his ear.

“Sorry, fido. Hate to be a tease, but we’ll have to take a raincheck,” said Vashti, her warm breath on his ear as the sky rumbled. She stroked his face one last time as her pupils briefly narrowed like those of a lizard before becoming two dark, focused pinpoints, and patted his cheek. She grinned diabolically as she moved to trail Emily. “I’ve gotta go kill someone.”

It began to rain.

---

Interactions: Jack @Blizz & Anya (via Pin Drop) @Fernstone
The Halloween Festival

---

Why wouldn’t Jack just leave her alone? The corner of Sloane’s left eye began to spasm. Her mouth tightened until her lips all but disappeared, her teeth clenched together so tightly that they threatened to poof into dust. She inhaled deeply and lifted her head to the sky, a droplet of rain splashing upon her forehead which she wiped away with a hand that had balled itself up into a tiny, shaking fist. She closed her eyes tight until she started to see spots. I worry for you. What a stupid thing to say. She said she was good which translated to she didn’t want to talk to anyone. Everybody should just know that.

Her phone buzzed as she got a message from Anya. Anya would understand. If she were here she would’ve grabbed Jack by the shoulders and steer him away. Sloane dropped her a pin with their location.

“You’re just not going to stop, are you?” spat Sloane, glaring at Jack as she wobbled ever so slightly.

Normally she would’ve gone on a full lockdown when someone pushed her so hard to divulge anything about herself, but someone must’ve spilled their drink on the control panel because none of the usual buttons she pressed were able to completely shut Jack out. It wasn’t that she believed that her wants and feelings didn’t matter, even though in the grand scheme of everything they didn’t matter—hell, she didn’t even matter. She just didn’t like sharing them because sharing them made them real and once they were real they were oh so much harder to push down and ignore.

“You know what, fine. Something is on my mind. Actually a lot of things are. All the time. It’s a lot like you in that regard,” said Sloane, her words dragged down by the alcohol. She sneered and elaborated, “It just won’t shut the fuck up and leave me alone.”

It was getting annoying to stand. Her legs felt weak and the stupid world kept rocking back and forth. It was probably drunk too. She inelegantly plopped down in the dying grass, dangerously close to the puddle of paint that she had stripped from Jasper’s artwork. She watched the raindrops create patterns of their own in the paint as the colors spread, mixed, and thinned. Individually, each little droplet did almost nothing to the spilled paint. However, when it all accumulated together it was able to blend everything together into one big muddy mess. For a moment it seemed like Sloane had completely gone away, or that the lockdown sequence had been initiated after all.

Then she finally broke her silence.

“My best friend is dead and I’ll never get to talk to her again, and now her husband hates me and will never talk to me again. My other best friend probably only spends time with me out of pity because she probably realizes what a mess I’d be without her. It’s so unfair to put that on her. I just weigh her down. My dad’s trying to work his way back into my life, which means he’s either working an angle or, worse, he actually just cares about me and I can’t do the same for him. I finally worked up the courage to ask the boy I liked out for a dinner date after ten years and he was murdered before I had the chance to do it. Now I can only think about how much I respected and idolized him growing up, and how much time I wasted fearing rejection, and how he’s now stashed in, in, I don’t know, in some shoebox or something in his sister’s linen closet, and I just can’t even bear to think about th—”

Her voice swelled with emotion and broke. When she found her words again, she was back to her typical text-to-speech narration.

“While you and Anya kept everyone safe last week, I managed to get myself jerked around by 8th street and accomplished nothing. I’m starting to realize that accomplishing nothing is probably the best for everyone, because I destroy everything I touch,” she said, staring at the blank canvas with an expression just as empty. “I lost a bunch of artifacts, including a bunch of knockoffs that I made that could absolutely devastate communities if not entire countries, and I can’t even do anything about it because I’m scared. I’m scared. I don’t know why nobody else acts like it, but I’m so fucking scared that I’m going to die like everybody I ever cared about or continue be a disappointment like everyone else.”

The rain was cold, but it wasn’t the reason why her body began to shiver and quake.

“It’s not just Jasper. Everybody hates me. I don’t even get it. They just hate me. They found the first excuse they could use and kicked me out as quickly as they could. Seriously, like, how did Britney, who robbed so many people of their future, who used innocents as sacrificial pawns, who, for all intents and purposes, was a war criminal, stay in longer than me? Gets welcomed back and immediately forgiven while I’m still looked at with suspicion and disdain? Is allowed to sneak behind people’s backs and make calls she has no right to make that put people’s lives in danger and not get called out for it? It’s unfair. It’s just so unfair. Not a single thing has changed. It’s all just another popularity contest. Fine. Let them hate me. I hate them all, too.”

“And that includes you,” said Sloane, glaring daggers at Jack. “Stop pretending like you know me. Stop pretending that you care about me. I don’t know if you just feel guilty for abandoning us that you have to constantly hovering around like a helicopter parent, or if you’re actually just secretly a good guy, but please just stop. Hate me like everyone else. It’ll be so much easier for you. Don’t do what Anya did to herself. I don’t want to have to carry the weight of being the reason another person is made into a social pariah. I’m a curse given human form. That's just the way it is.”

“So please,” said Sloane, the harsh look in her eyes breaking as genuine concern slipped through regarding Jack’s status as an outcast. “Fuck off.”

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@silvermist1116 God damn, Tayla must have some really good coochie to get Dean so obsessed with her. lol

She got that ushy gushy.

Super Soaker 3000.

@Punished GN

Guild needs a feature to dislike a post.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

---

Dean.Walker

in collaboration w/ @silvermist1116

A Quiet Place To Chat. The Halloween Festival.

---

As Emily committed the heist of the century it begged the question: where was Sully?

Sully was in trouble.

His eyes darted to and fro in near panic, searching for a solution that was not there. His teeth clenched, his knees trembled, and his muscles tightened. He felt like he was about to explode. It was funny how something as simple as an overfilled tank could immediately make him abandon his duties as head of the toga line. How the hell was every porta-john in the world either occupied or nuked to total oblivion? He moved with the energy of a nervous dancer as he threaded through the crowd, further and further away from his friends and the toga party. Alternatives began to play out in his mind. Trash can? No, too public. The last thing he needed was to get slapped with an indecent exposure charge. He was pretty sure that kind of thing could get you labeled as a sex offender, and try convincing somebody that it was only for taking a leak in public when his mugshot had a mustache. Subtly wade out into the ocean? No, he didn’t want to either piss on or piss off Poseidon.

Head further and further away from everyone else until he found a grouping of trees thick enough to cover himself from any prying eyes?

Now that couldn’t possibly go wrong.

Sully did just that. He vanished into the treeline near the haunted house and hiked a couple hundred feet further into the woods, just in case someone spotted his shadow and thought Bigfoot was hanging around the Halloween Festival. He found a decent enough spot, bunched his toga up, leaned towards the tree to steady himself with his hand, and released a massive sigh of relief. Crisis averted. Sully absentmindedly motioned to dump a Chalice full of soapy water on his hands, only to realize he was Dionysus without his cup. He slapped his forehead, remembering that he’d left it with Drake in case he dropped it down the porta-john because no amount of self-cleaning would convince him that it would be safe to drink from the Chalice ever again if that happened. Okay, he just wouldn’t give out anymore high fives until he found some hand sanitizer.

Sully turned to head back to the festival, and then turned again, and then turned back to the tree whose night he had ruined. His eyes narrowed. Right. The festival was over that way, wasn’t it? He began stomping through the forest in a drunken stupor, snapping twigs and crunching leaves.

Dean didn’t care for the festival. He’s aged out of all the bullshit kids got up to, but he’d gotten word from one of his dealers about seeing Sully here. After he found a picture of him on his social media, he spread that around to his people and told them to keep an eye out. He shadow stepped onto the dock. He remembered everything about the place. Island hasn’t changed in thirty years. He kept to quiet places, looking for Sully and found him in a conga line yelling “Toga!” with a bunch of other kids. He waited for him to separate. He was a patient guy. Meant nothing to him if it took hours or minutes. Sully finally branched off to go to the bathroom, he followed behind him into the forest and bided his time. He didn’t want his piss all over him, so he waited for him to finish peeing, before coming up behind him in the shadows.

He grabbed him and threw him into a tree. “Hey, Sully. Good to see you again. You ready to answer my questions this time?”

Sully’s first thought when he hit the tree was that he’d tripped over a particularly aggressive branch. The booze dampened enough of the blow that he wasn’t immediately stunned when he heard the sound of bark breaking behind him as his shoulder cracked into the tree. His second thought was why was it that everytime a strong and handsome biker pinned him to something it was never in the way he’d imagined it happening. His third thought when he realized the man was the same guy who’d shoved a gun in his mouth and kicked him in his teeth was oh shit.

“Oh hey buddy, yeah man, funny running into you here of all places. Questions?” said Sully, his words slurring together. “Oh man, I'd love to answer some questions. Oh but I forgot!”

Sully pushed himself off of the tree and made a poor effort to try and stumble past Dean. He was almost cartoonishly drunk. He moved and spoke in such a way that he seemed less like an actual drunk person and more like a bad actor portraying a drunk in a made for TV movie. All that was missing was some hiccups and he’d be a total caricature.

“I gotta lead a toga line. Hey man, you like to party? Only one rule. You gotta wear a toga, but it’s cool. I got one right here,” said Sully, patting his belly as if to suggest he was offering Dean the toga he was wearing. “Hey what’s your name, man? You still got my jacket?”

Dean chuckled. Oh man, it’s been awhile since he’s had to deal with a drunk. Loved those times quite a bit. A bit of entertainment.

He pushed Sully back into the tree, this time he kept his hand on his shoulder and looked him right in his blurry eyes. Not every day he meets a man that’s as tall and as big as him. Given their first meeting and now, he gets the feeling Sully’s all fluff. Not much of a threat if he’s not gonna throw his weight around to protect himself.

He gave Sully a heavy handed slap to the face. Wouldn’t leave a mark, but it would sting. “Listen, Sully, focus. Now you seem like a nice and reasonable guy. Fucking drunk as hell, but still got your wits about you. How about you tell me where I can find Tayla Choi. About yeh high.” He lowered his hand to below his chin. “Asian, skinny as hell, but pretty cute. I’m sure you’ve seen her. You Coven yahoos had to have a meeting for you all to show up at the club that night. I bet she was there. Tell me what I wanna know and you’re free to go.”

Sully rubbed his cheek. Dean’s instincts were right in regards to Sully not being much of a fighter. Unless they were on a gridiron and a football was in Dean’s hands Sully was about as threatening as an overstuffed teddy bear. Outside of any kind of business involving a certain snake, Sully could count the number of fights he had been in as an adult on one finger and that had been with Dean last week. However, that didn’t mean he was a pacifist, and his hair wasn’t long enough for him to pretend he was dressed as Jesus. There would be no turning of the other cheek.

“There was no meeting,” said Sully. Well, what he actually said sounded like “snow meeting”, but anyone not drunk would be able to get the point. “Is that how bikers do it? Have to have a meeting before heading to the titty bar? Y’all got someone who keeps minutes?”

Sully saw the look in Dean’s eye and changed the subject before another slap came his way.

“Oh wait, you said Tayla CHOI! Iheard you wrong the last time, must’ve been all the sand in my ears. Yeah, hold on, lemme think…”

Sully hadn’t been around when Tayla was at her lowest. He had heard this and that from Ashley and a few of the others he’d stayed in touch with, but his memory of Tayla was firmly isolated in the era before she’d figured out how to bypass the childproof caps on the pill bottles. She was fun and crazy in the good way. He’d liked hanging out with her. Hell, even if he didn’t like hanging out with her, even if he did have to deal with her struggling with addiction and all the lying and guilt and frustration that came with it, even if they had never talked and she was just another rando belonging to the coven it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t about to sell her out to some obsessive and violent loser creep who clearly couldn’t take the hint.

Sully snapped his fingers.

“That’s right! Now I remember where you can find Tayla. You can actually find her right—” Sully suddenly rocketed his knee up between Dean’s legs, looking to give the weirdo his receipt by crushing his pride and joy with a cheapshot. ”—HERE!

Dean got the feeling Sully would try and worm his way out of answering him. He didn’t rise to the jabs about bikers having meetings before they did anything. He let him talk. The talkers usually let something slip. He had hoped he would, but he didn’t. He got a shot to the crotch instead. Pain exploded on his dick.

“Motherfuck-” He grabbed Sully on his way down, gripping his toga so tight it would rip off of him if he didn’t fall with Dean’s momentum.

“Hey! Not again!” yelled Sully as Dean attempted to once again steal his wardrobe.

The world teeter tottered as Sully was pulled down to the ground with Dean, getting mud on his crisp white toga. He was all instinct right now, but that instinct was running on a significant time delay considering he had drank more red wine than what would've been consumed by the prototypical book club consisting solely of affluent suburban mothers. He reached down with his meaty palm, scooped up a load of mud, and slung it at Dean’s eyes. Meanwhile, he chopped desperately at Dean’s wrist with his hand so he could break his grasp, stumble to his feet, and begin to run away.

The longer this went on the more Dean was losing his cool. The dick shot was a low blow. Slinging mud in his eyes, a cheat shot. A man Sully’s size could’ve done a lot more damage if he just punched him in the face. He wiped up the mess and stumbled to his feet. He didn’t bother running after Sully. He wouldn’t waste his energy. He slipped into the shadows and appeared a second before Sully ran passed him, arm stretched out, and clotheslined the fucking idiot. His massive body hit the ground and Dean got on top of him, giving him a good punch to the face.

“Now answer the fucking question. Where the hell is Tayla Choi?” he asked him in a low voice. It matched the quiet of the forest. No one would be able to hear him like a private conversation between close friends.

“I don’t fucking know, man!” said Sully, wheezing from hitting the ground and muffled by his hand that had moved to himself. His face hurt like a motherfucker. Even if he could wiggle out from underneath Dean he was too drunk and sluggardly to beat him in a fight. “I don’t know! Last week was the first time I’ve seen her in like ten years and she left within five minutes. As far as I know that’s the last anyone has seen of her. So c’mon, man, just get offa me. And gimme back my jacket!”

“See, wasn’t that easy? Should’ve said so from the start, so here’s what you’re going to do.” He formed a shadow and stuck his hand inside, pulling out Sully’s jacket. “I put my number in your pocket.” He dropped his jacket in the mud beside him. “You see her, you call me right away.” He grabbed him by the hair and pulled his face closer to his. “You have a week. I don’t hear from you by,” he checked his watch, “10pm next Thursday, then I’ll pay you another visit. Next time I won’t be so nice.” He pushed his head away, letting it slam back into the ground. “We have an understanding?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” said Sully, barely understanding how he’d even gotten here as he stared vacantly at his dirty letterman jacket, his voice flat. “We have an understanding…”

“Good. See you in a week.” Dean slipped into the shadows and disappeared.

Sully grimaced. He understood one thing. He had to warn Tayla.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

---

Interactions: 317/Jasper's Art@NoriWasHere & (Apologies to) Jack @Blizz
(Stumbling All Over) The Halloween Festival

---

Faces and masks blurred and became static as Sloane pushed through the gathered crowd huddled around the vendors. She moved with no actual destination in mind, only following after the kneejerk that told her she had to get away and clear her head before she started saying too much. Harsh words were like a stick of dynamite with a wick cut just a bit too long—they could be used to clear out the rocks in someone’s brain, or it could be picked up by someone quick enough and whipped back at the sender, falling at their feet right beside a wooden slat crate that read filled with TNT. It wasn’t as if Anya’s pleas of her attempting to use tact fell entirely on deaf ears. Sloane had been trying (poorly) to keep her sharp tongue tucked away for the past few weeks, but somewhere between drink one and drink four the scabbard had become loosened and liable to slip.

She just needed to be away from the others, otherwise she’d cut someone and get hurt in the process again. Only she didn’t want to be away from the others. She wanted to be a part of them, accepted as one of them, treated as one of them. Sloane wanted to attend slumber parties and summon demons. She wanted to wrap herself up in a bedsheet and parade around like an asshole. She wanted to tease and flirt and make out and hook up and act like she was a teenager again because when she was a teenager she didn’t have the chance to act like that. She wanted a redo. She was tired of being the responsible one. She was jealous. She had always been jealous. She was sick of being around not because she was actually liked and wanted but because of what she could offer.

Wait, no, oh god, the world tilted. She wasn’t just metaphorically sick, she was actually about to be legitimately sick. No, no, no. Her heart tap danced in arrhythmic panic. Her eyes darted around for a place of privacy in a sea of stalls that warped and bent like a reflection in a funhouse mirror. She felt a chill run down her spine. She stumbled, a clammy hand shooting out to catch the corner of a table for balance. The world righted itself. Sloane took a deep breath. She was fine. Of course she was fine. She wasn’t drunk. It was just thinking about the others that had nearly made her violently ill. She was totally in control of—oh no no nonono! There was another sudden surge as she clamped a hand over her mouth. Her cheeks puffed like a croaking bullfrog and then diminished with another false alarm that turned out to only be a muted and dainty burp.

See? She gestured to the world that was paying her no attention. Not drunk.

Sloane looked up and for a moment thought she was about to experience another wave of naus—sorry, “vertigo”—as she came face to face with a canvas painting of bright swirling colors arranged in seemingly random, chaotic patterns. Generally abstract art was not her bag, but it was both somehow absolutely beautiful and deeply unsettling. Was it a Jackson Pollock? A print, obviously, an original wouldn’t be displayed in some booth run by what appeared to be a wild pack of bohemian hipsters. In the center of the painting, isolated away through the waves of warm and vibrant colors by a sea of black, was a lone drop of blue. Sloane felt her throat tighten with a choke, as she never felt a deeper connection in her life to something than she did the little drop of blue. She must’ve gotten something in her eye, too, as it began to well up. Through her blurry vision she saw the initials signed near the bottom corner of the painting: JW.

Jasper Wilde.

The well went immediately dry, the blockade in her throat cleared by a ragged, heated breath. The abstract dashes and drops became concrete images corrupted by memory. The little drop of blue didn’t just connect with Sloane; it was Sloane, with the black the clothes she had once dressed in to seize some kind of identity with a hope to connect to others. The forest greens and golden yellows and fiery reds spiraled out with splayed roots of a tree, representing the members of the Sycamore Coven, none of which dared to grow near her. She recalled real moments of rooms growing quiet when she entered, of shoulders turning from her when she spoke, of plans being made in front of her face without an offering of an invitation. The faces in the memories were blurred abstracts like those in the crowd mixed with the paint on the canvas except for one that prominently stood out: stupid Jasper, shining and adored by all and irrationally intolerant of her.

It was a simple leap in logic. Everybody liked Jasper. Jasper didn’t like her. Therefore, everybody didn’t like her because of Jasper. How could someone be so petty and so fucking obsessive to paint an ode to another person’s loneliness, a loneliness that they should be held responsible for? Her lip quivered. Her teeth clenched. Her fist tightened. She punched a hand into her jacket and pulled out her wallet like it was a gun and she was about to go postal. She drew the attention of the art dealer, a young woman with a head full of tight curls and wearing as much jewelry as she was clothing, with two snaps of her fingers followed by a jabbing thrust towards the 18x24 insult.

“How much?"

When Jack decided to stop being Sloane’s shadow and actually approach the woman she had shifted away from the 317 booth and towards the one of the pop-up bars, unaware of the presence of the offending artist, the rest of Sycamore, or the PRA due to the mere separation caused by a few tent flaps. Sloane had found herself an area of privacy in the crowd behind the gathering of drink tents and bars. It wasn’t quite an area that was obviously off-limits, but it was clearly not meant to be an area for festival goers to gather. It was its own isolated bubble, popped only by the murmur of the crowd and the rumble of approaching toga chants. However, at any moment the chance glance between tents would reveal the lady in red behind them.

Sloane huddled by a stack of empty crates, the painting wrapped in brown paper sitting upon them like a makeshift easel, a drink in one hand, the other gently massaging the bridge of her nose that still stung when she touched it. She didn’t even jump when Jack appeared, merely giving him a slow glance. Her dark eyes were hooded and hazy with a deep disconnect and the drunkenness, and moved with the kind of choppiness of a video that was constantly buffering. There was an entire five seconds of blankness before Sloane’s lips twitched in confirmation that she acknowledged his existence.

"Sloane, what is it that troubles you tonight? It isn't Drake, or me, is it?" asked Jack.

“Nothing troubles me, Jack. I apologize for earlier. To be blunt, teleportation never sat well with me. I think that I’m simply just a bit old fashioned in that regard,” said Sloane. Her words were slow and slurred and accompanied by another strange giggle that didn’t match the somber vacancy in her eyes. She jiggled the red solo cup in her hand to emphasize the pun and pull her focus away from the memory of her parents so confidently rushing through a portal and leaving her behind just like everybody else does. She took a sip of the drink, made a pained expression, and choked out, “I’m good. Really. Say, do you like art?”

Sloane let go of the cup but it did not fall. Instead, it hung in suspended animation about four feet off of the ground, her hexmark etched next to the recycling symbol on the bottom of the cup. She had one hand in her pocket on her channeler while the other pulled a knife out from underneath her coat. With three quick and shockingly precise slashes she cut the brown wrapping paper around Jasper’s painting, leaving the bottom unsliced so that it draped down from the painting and over the crates. Like the cup, the knife hung in the air as Sloane let go of it. She pulled her channeler out of her pocket.

“Jasper made this piece for me. Can you believe it? Anyway, I love art. When I was a little girl I wanted to become an artist of some kind. It didn’t matter what, as long as it was creative. Only I was no good at it. My father said I just wasn’t born with the knack for art. My mother was more honest about it. She told me I just didn’t have any talent and that I should stop wasting everybody’s time. In retrospect, it was a pretty harsh thing to say to a seven-year-old.” As Sloane spoke, she began to trace a hexmark onto the painting with her channeler. “I wonder if Jasper’s mother told him the same. I don’t have the talent, it’s true, but I still have an eye for good art. He should’ve listened to his mother instead of wasting paint on this derivative piece of shit.”

She pulled her channeler back, reached forward, and booped the little drop of blue with her finger. The blue circle and orange cross of her hexmark glowed and then vanished as the paint on the canvas glitched. It became wet again before cascading off of the sheet like a waterfall, splashing off of the brown paper before it tumbled to the ground and sprayed up onto Sloane’s boots. The canvas had been completely reset except for the initials in the corner. It was a beautiful painting of nothing by Jasper Wilde, a critical self-reflection on what the man’s opinions were actually worth. Sloane blinked, grabbed her knife, and turned to Jack.

“I hope you really didn’t come here because you were worried that I might be upset at you, Jack,” she said, closing the knife and putting it back in her jacket. “You shouldn’t obsess so much about what other people think about you. It is so terribly unhealthy. As long as you’re doing the right thing it doesn’t matter what they think, say, or create. Got it?"

“An-y-way,” Sloane grabbed the old fashioned frozen in the air and took a drink. “Since you’re here, could you transfer that piece to my apartment for me? I don’t want to have to carry it around for the rest of the night. Oh, actually, you know what? Perhaps you should take it instead. Consider it a gift. Hang it up across from your bed. That way you can wake up every morning, see Nothing, and think of me. Then you'll be able to remember exactly what else, besides precisely what I may have already asked for, that I need from you.”

Sloane turned her crooked nose up, waved Jack off with a dismissive shooing motion, and drained her drink.